


i know it gets so hard sometimes

by kickmyhead



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, discussions of death mourning and grief, i weeped when writing this one boys, its 2am and im going FERAL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28183347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickmyhead/pseuds/kickmyhead
Summary: the parents of sunset curve handle their son's deaths in different ways.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 69





	i know it gets so hard sometimes

When Mr and Mrs Mercer hear about their son’s death, they scrape together a funeral, they dress in black and put an obituary in the paper and do everything a grieving parent should do. Except they stop there. They feel guilty, a little, that they don’t actually feel  _ terrible _ about his death. He was their son, but it stopped there. They weren’t close, not in recent years anyway. They didn’t fight, not really, it was more that they were just strangers in one household, putting up with each other out of necessity. Mostly, they’re upset that they didn’t get Grandchildren, though they suppose that dream ended with their son’s  _ lifestyle choices  _ (as Mrs Mercer refers to them with disdain). When they tell people their son passed away (they pointedly don’t mention anything else about him), they accept the  _ aws _ and the condolences with perfect poker faces, and push away the tiny little voice in their heads that ask them why they don’t feel anything about it. 

They don’t think about him, and maybe that’s for the better. 

  
  


When Mr and Mrs Peters hear news of their son’s death, they don’t do much. They get divorced, obviously, but it’s not a result of grief, just years of slow poison and resentment and hatred. The absence of their son in their lives is strange- they had both expected it to be larger, suffocating, but it’s  _ tiny _ . Their life is not changed by this event, and eventually they settle back into the routine. Mr Peters still settles down on his gingham couch, still unfurls his newspaper, still falls asleep to Jeopardy with a half-eaten casserole on his chest, still goes to work and laughs with the boys. Mrs Peters still goes to brunches with her gal pals, still keeps a pack of cigarettes tucked into her leather handbag, still wears her big chunky pearls and lavender button-ups and pink lipgloss. He keeps the house, while she travels, taking polaroids of landscapes and filling up her pocketbook with the numbers of the people she meets. When people ask if they have kids, both say no, say that they never could, mumble some excuse about never finding the right time. Reggie’s room is packed away swiftly, his whole life folded into boxes and donated to charity and slightly sentimental relatives who could use t-shirts for their sons. Mr Peters eventually sells the house and lives in the Bahamas, becoming one of those old men who wears clashing shirts and tans on the beach. Mrs Peters remarries, and lives out her retirement in a charming cottage in Germany. Their son’s memory is practically transparent now, left to an old dusty bass and an article that is pulled up for a school’s Health And Safety assembly about the dangers of spoiled food. 

Sometimes they still think of their son though- on cold, late nights, or when they hear a throwback song he would loop until the tape was worn out. They think about how they were so  _ excited _ to have him, about how he used to try so hard, about how their last words to him probably weren’t the best. They think about how he deserved better.

  
  


When Mr and Mrs Patterson hear about their son’s death, they’re broken. Their life grinds to a halt, and they stay there, grieving and shocked and feeling oddly like the universe is playing some unfunny joke on them. Luke’s pictures stay around the house, tended to lovingly and in ornate frames. Mrs Patterson stays in bed some days, staring up at the wall with all its cracks and damp spots and hoping desperately that this is all some sick, twisted daydream and that their son will be back soon, will roll his eyes affectionately when she hugs him and will tell her about all the trivial details of his teenage life that she misses so much. Mr Patterson hands in his two week notice at work and throws away his record player.    
After a while, after tense fights and miserable reconciliations and everything that comes with mourning somebody that only they can mourn, they stop waiting. Their son’s room is eventually packed away into neat labelled boxes that are still with them, that they still look through. The room remains bare, because what could ever replace it? They both cry that night, but know they’re doing the right thing. They fight tooth and nail to keep their house, and win. They take up hobbies. Mr Patterson starts baking, getting elbow deep in dough and he starts  _ laughing  _ again. Mrs Patterson gets into woodworking- she makes chairs and sells them, and meets people that way. Their life slowly starts chugging on, starts picking up speed again. There are hard days, but there are good days, and that makes all the difference. And all this time, they know that they’re doing this for him. Every move they make is for Luke Patterson, their beautiful, flawed, wonderful son.

  
  



End file.
